


A Bastard in King's Landing

by petrichorblue94



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Jon Snow in King's Landing, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow is super caring and awesome, Sansa tries her hand in the Great Game, Some Humor, cunning!Sansa, for all we know jon could be trueborn, it sounded good tho, title had even me cracked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichorblue94/pseuds/petrichorblue94
Summary: “You need to go,” Sansa told him one night, after he had stolen into her rooms and fucked her like the world was ending. He glanced at her sideways, at first not even understanding what she was talking about. “This was never right.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a prompt list full of lines, where I thought that each of those lines could be used together in the right context. The context in my mind just screamed jon x sansa and I actually had to double check if this wasn't in the jonsa tag in the first place.   
> Some of the lines were modified to suit the time period more, but most of them came as they were. Only two lines weren't used “Don't be an ass.” & “You’re such a bitch.” because they weren't suitable for the story and because frankly I don't want to imagine the situation jonsa would have to be in, for those words to be exchanged.   
> Here's the link to the prompts: http://petrichorblue94.tumblr.com/post/157059123469/ghostling-four-word-prompts-please-come

“You need to go,” Sansa told him one night, after he had stolen into her rooms and fucked her like the world was ending. He glanced at her sideways, at first not even a understanding what she was talking about. “This was never right.” Comprehension dawned on his face and was quickly replaced with guilt. He was her only haven, her only protector in this den of lions - it had been only natural that he'd find a new place in her heart, slightly less that he'd find a place in her cunt but the oddest thing was that she'd enjoyed it so much, this act of rebellion against the society - hidden as it was from it.

“I'm sorry but no,” he told her. “If you want me to stop with _this_ -” he gestured the two of them – naked and still sweaty from their almost animalistic coupling. “Alright. But if you want me to leave you here, alone, then no, I'm not doing this.”

But it had been yesterday, at dinner, when Petyr Baelish found her and told her that the people were starting to whisper about the two of them, that if she didn't send Jon Snow away, to Winterfell or even better – to Castle Black – his head might be the next one on the spike. And however kind Tyrion Lannister was, Petyr doubted he'd help the lover of his wife live.

“I don't want you,” she told Jon Snow then, sharp and final.

“You don't want me,” he repeated, as if almost disbelieving.

“I don't _love_ you.”

There was a thick silence in the dark and humid chamber, and it was broken only when Jon Snow swallowed, hard – Sansa saw the silhouette of his Adam's apple wobble. “I never expected to be loved by you anyway.”

Sansa looked away from him and her mind traveled back to how it all began.

* * *

 

The affair, as Sansa liked to call it in her mind, began after one of her beatings by the kingsguard. The two of them, Jon and Sansa, were alone in her room, she her backside was naked – the burn of the clothes on her back too unbearable to her, so she was simply clutching the front to herself. Jon was standing still by the door frame.

Sansa was half-lost in her thoughts, staring at the little bottle of ointment before her. “You always this quiet?” she asked him idly as she reached for the bottle, but winced because even the smallest of actions were painful. “I can't remember.”

“Let me help you,” he offered at once and crossed the room in a few steps. He grabbed the bottle and after she nodded - smeared some of the balm across her skin.

His touch was something different – warm and human against her skin, not cold and metallic like the fists of the knights. It still hurt but maybe it was because it was _him –_ poor, dear, unassuming Jon Snow – it was a kinder pain. They went into something like a trance, lost in the feeling of each other's skin. He moved an unruly lock of hair away from her neck, as it was sticking on the wet and moist substance of the ointment. Then he caressed her, intimately, mindlessly, having forgotten himself for a moment. Sansa turned to look at him, dove eyes against unwittingly passionate, pupil-blown ones.

Night had long since fallen, both of them had missed dinner. Jon Snow stood up abruptly and meant to leave but Sansa caught his hand ( _warmhumanrealsafe_ ) and shook her head.

“Just stay with me,” she whispered. All traces of innocence were lost when she said: “I need you, Jon.”

“I need to go,” he answered, but his voice came husky and low, like a man who was about to do the opposite, like a man halfway from throwing himself on top of her and devouring her. There was something wickedly fine in the concept of him doing just that.

“I won't let you,” Sansa told him and her voice was suddenly breezily cool. She released his hand but only to remove the final pieces of her clothes. Jon Snow remained, he watched her silently as she undressed herself without tearing her gaze away from him (in truth she was afraid he would run away if she did).

“Stop it,” he whispered brokenly as she was slowly pulling the final string off her dress. When she made no such attempt, he continued. “I said stop it!” He caught her wrists, gently, tenderly but his resolve was apparent.

“You love me, right?” Sansa asked, her cerulean eyes burning hotly against his dark ones (the shape of their eyes, however, was the same). At this, Jon Snow wavered.

Sansa took advantage of this moment of hesitance and released her hands from his, so that she could start undoing his breeches.

“Are you insane, Sansa?” he asked, but he didn't try to stop her again. She looked up at him once more.

“Maybe I am,” she replied carelessly. “But I need you. Now. Will you help me?”

And this, it seemed, was all that was needed to break his will.

Their first kiss was hungry. It was not the kind of innocent, lazy kiss that could just let them remain as they were – no, this was a kiss that always led to something more.

She laid back on the bed and looked at him expectantly as he marveled at her, as he lowered himself on her, as he kissed her again – a series of numerous, slow kisses on her lips, on her cheek, as he caressed her face.

“Oh, Jon,” she whispered suddenly, and there was something small and broken in her voice that made him pause. “I can't do this,” she sobbed. She kissed him, however, and it made him think that it was not their lovemaking that she couldn't do. “I don't want _this_.” But her hand was straying low, down to his abdomen and lower. “I want home,” she said as she slowly helped guide his member inside of her. She sucked in a long, painful breath when he penetrated her and locked her eyes with his. “I can't keep being all alone in this horrible place.”

While she was adjusting to the size of him, he caressed his face softly. “I believe in you. You'll make it out of here.” And as he began to finally move within her, his final words for a long while were: “And you're not alone, sweetling, you have me.”

And she had him, in all the ways she herself didn't know about.

Afterwards, he laid his head on her chest, slowly – as if this was the most sacred thing he'd ever done. She embraced him, traced circles on his shoulder with her index finger. “I'm not even sorry,” she said and the thrill and the haze of what they'd just done almost made her giggle.

Jon Snow was silent.

“Alright,” he said in a half-whisper, as if he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Alright what?” she asks, smiling down at him.

He raises his head towards her and says solemnly: “Alright, I love you.” Sansa laughed but said nothing. Instead she caressed his face with her gentle, cold fingers which trembled just a little.

Almost half an hour had passed when he sat up and started putting on his pants. “The gardens are so lovely at night,” he told her. “D'you want to go out sometime?” Sansa hadn't willingly gone out of her rooms in weeks.

“Oh, very funny,” Sansa remarked teasingly. “You want us to go out, together, without a chaperon?” she asked with a naughty smile. It was her first genuine smile in months.

“If a chaperon doesn't come in when we're fucking, then why should they come out when we're innocently enjoying the night breeze and the flowers?” Sansa smirked at his sudden sordid humor. She might not have done so in her golden days of old, but she found some inexplicable pleasure in the dirty words Jon sometimes used. “Besides, we could eat some of the lemon cakes I stole from the kitchens for you.”

A grin dawned on her face. “So it was you who stole them!” She stood up and put on his tunic. “You're my favorite person in the world!”

Jon Snow smiled smugly but when he turned to look at her he paused. “Is that my shirt?”

“Well, I'm not wearing _that_.” She gestured to her ruined dress and her smile faded when she saw the evidence of her shame.

“People will start whispering if they see us like that.”

“What – me in your shirt, you shirtless or us together in this state in the middle of the night?” Sansa leaned towards him and stole herself a kiss. “Let them,” she told him. “See if I care.”

* * *

 

“Alright, I'll leave,” Jon Snow said abruptly and stood up. “I'm out of here,” he said as he started putting on his pants. Sansa tried to breathe properly, she tried to pretend her heart didn't feelchilled from his words. “But please,” he told her as he paused and looked at her like a man burning on the stake. “Come with me.”

“I can't,” she mumbled.

“Why not?”

“I can't trust you.”

Jon Snow looked at her like she'd suddenly grown a third eye. “You _can_ trust me.” Sansa remained suspiciously silent. “Sansa, please talk to me.”

She instantly turned towards him, sat up and asked. “I know you keep things from me, Jon. I see you writing letters, and you don't tell me where you are sending them. Who were you with two days ago when I saw you on the market? You think I'm a stupid little girl like everyone else, but I can promise you, all of you are deluded -!”

“Sansa, will you be quiet and hear me out?” Jon asked suddenly, but there was a tender note in his voice that made her listen to him. “The night before Lord Stark's execution,” he began. “I sneaked inside the dungeons and tried to help him escape.” Sansa almost hiccuped from the sudden change of subject, the unexpected news. “But he told me there was no use – that we'd both be caught quickly and instead of one execution, there would be two or even more.” He looked at her intently. “But he told me something else, something he'd promised me a long time ago. He told me of my mother… and my true father.”

“What?!”

“Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen they were,” Jon said. “I've been writing to Daenerys Targaryen and informing her of our situation. I promised her the support of the North in her Westeros campaign if she helps us escape and lets the North stay independent. The man you saw me on the market with – this was Jorah Mormont, one of her men. He has arranged for us to escape King's Landing in four nights.” He put on his shirt, abruptly knelt to her bed and caught her hands in his. “Will you come away with me, Sansa Stark?”

After the initial shock, Sansa managed to arch an eyebrow. “Another Targaryen prince stealing a Stark girl?” she said with a weak smile. “A great war was started last time.”

Jon's face darkened. “A great war will be started this time too, and those who wronged us will pay with fire and blood.”

“I rather like the sound of that,” she said. “But I have a condition.”

“A condition?” he asked surprised. It was not everyday that someone who was being released from the living hell had a condition for such a release.

“I shan't be catered off to another political engagement. I don't want to be married to someone who doesn't love me well. But there is one problem.” She was playing the great game now, adapting to sudden the changes of it and taking advantage of each opportunity. “I don't think anyone will ever love me as well as you.”

“Sansa...” Jon's eyes filled with unexpected compassion. “Being loved means nothing unless you return those affections.”

“Oh, Jon,” she told him. “You know nothing.” His eyes shone with sudden hope and then warmth when she buried her fingers in his hair and looked at him lovingly. “Will you marry me?” she asked teasingly.

Jon laughed. “I never expected to be proposed to,” he confessed dramatically. “I'm flattered, really,” he told her. “But I can't.” Sansa's grin slowly started fading and color started draining from her face. “You're a terrible cook,” he hurried to say.

“Rude, Jon Snow,” she told him. “Rude.”

Both of them looked at each other for a long moment of shared emotion and understanding and finally they burst laughing.

* * *

 

Later, much later when she was enjoying the sunlight kissing her eyelids through the carriage window, when they were nearing Winterfell, Jon spoke: “I wonder if Arya and Bran have brought lemon cakes. I think I fell in love with them during those nights in the royal garden.” Sansa opened her eyes and glared at him. “Sorry, were you sleeping?”

“I was on my way to,” she berated him. “You should catch a nap too, by the way. You look tired.”

Jon laughed, and he seemed on the verge of hysterics. “I think the last time I had a good night's sleep was well before the battle for the dawn.”

Sansa touched his shoulder. “You should rest now then,” she told her lord husband. “Don't worry, I'll watch over you.”

There was something spoken between the two of them, without a word – in the manner all good spouses seemed to converse in. Finally Jon relented:

“You've convinced me,” he said at last, crossed his arms and theatrically closed his eyes. Sansa smiled and leaned on his shoulder, pressed her hand to where his beating heart was.

Soon, Jon was sleeping and snoring lightly and Sansa, happy with herself, returned to enjoying the feathery kisses of the winter sun.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic has some elements from my other Jonsa story “To See You Again” - it's still alive and kicking, and some 2k words have been written for the next chapter. I'll probably write the whole thing after my exam and the update will come by the end of February. So, if you want to see more of Jon-in-King's-Landing-AU's, even under vastly different circumstances with more plot, tune up for TSYA in ten chapters or so. :D


End file.
